


Stay Happy

by stuito55 (annabeth)



Category: Hockey RPF
Genre: Adultery, Cheating, Concussions, Docking, Explicit Language, Explicit Sexual Content, Guilty Conscience, M/M, Masturbation, Mutual Masturbation, Pining, Self-Esteem Issues, Voyeurism, hockey-related injury
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-05-25
Updated: 2017-05-25
Packaged: 2018-11-04 21:13:35
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,767
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10999095
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/annabeth/pseuds/stuito55
Summary: After a bad hit causes Kronwall to be concussed and stretchered off the ice, he shows up at Brad Stuart's hotel room. Remembrance becomes action.





	Stay Happy

**Author's Note:**

  * For [thesaddestboner](https://archiveofourown.org/users/thesaddestboner/gifts).



> That hit really happened. I don't remember when, now, though. And I found like 6 more hockey fics I never posted, so I guess I'm spamming. Oops.

Brad has seen the hit, of course he has. In fact, he's just come back from his own suspension—which he knows Kronner would say is _not his fault_ , just like he knows that Kronner would say is his own fault, for turning into the boards; like getting his head crushed like a grape is somehow his blame to shoulder. As if Cody McLeod hadn't been the one to drive his head into the dasher hard enough to knock off his helmet.

Brad knows he's obsessing, but Kronner's standing outside his hotel room, looking sad, and he keeps replaying the hit in his head, the worry that had swelled open in his chest, like a balloon expanding and pushing everything out of the way until he couldn't breathe… Kronner, lying on his back on the ice, eyes distinctly glazed…

"What am I, a vampire? You have to think about inviting me in?" Kronner touches Brad's shoulder, distracting him from his morose thoughts.

"No," Brad says, and forces what he hopes looks like a relieved smile. "I just wandered down a mental path and got lost."

"Well, good, I'm coming in then," Kronner says, and when he pushes past Brad to enter the room, his chest brushes against Brad's shoulder. It makes him shiver, to remember that this man used to be… well, not his, not exactly. It's just that, back when they were together in Detroit, he had that implicit permission to touch Kronner anywhere he wanted, anytime. Almost anytime. Like you get with a lover.

Brad's not sure he would have ever applied the term "lover" to Kronwall, though he supposes that's what they were.

But he missed his sons, and his wife; Kronner's warm body and hard chest weren't a substitute for the woman he loved. Loves. And he's not sure he wants to think about whether he loves Kronwall, even though he's missed him like crazy since moving back to San Jose; like the shape of him has left a hole in his life.

Kronner is standing just behind him now, looking at him curiously.

"Did your brain go out for coffee and forget to come back?" he asks, and Brad realises he's been standing there, with the door open to the hallway, like some idiot.

"Oh," he replies, and shuts the door. Kronner's colour is good, and he looks happy. At least, he looks like he always did, and Brad always assumed that his friend and teammate was happy.

He doesn't look like a man who has a concussion, or who was stretchered off the ice a few nights ago.

"Listen," Brad starts, trying to corral his thoughts into some sort of cohesive pattern. "How is your head? Should you even be here? That hit looked pretty bad."

Kronner's mouth tilts a little, that face he makes sometimes when he's not quite frowning, but the curve of his lips makes it look like he is.

"It was my fault," he says. "I shouldn't have cut back like that."

"It was not your fault," Brad counters. "He jammed your head into the dasher. I'm sure that's what everyone _hopes_ will happen when they get hit."

"I'm just saying, Stuie." Kronner shrugs uncomfortably. "I did cut back against the grain. I don't think he meant to hit me that hard."

Brad thinks, _I'm sure I don't mean to kiss you that hard,_ and wishes he still had that permission, that he could walk over to Kronner and unfold his crossed arms, step into him, and feel the heat of his lips against his again.

"I don't even have that much of a headache," Kronner offers, and Brad jams a smile onto his face. Far be it from him to try to convince someone who doesn't want to be convinced.

"I sent you a text," he points out. "There was no need for you to come all the way down here."

"I just wanted…" Kronner begins, and then he goes over, turning so his back is to Brad, and sits on the bed. For just that moment, looking at that broad back again, Brad aches.

"You can have whatever," he says. "I have beer in the mini-fridge, though you probably shouldn't have any with a concussion. Do you want some water?"

Kronner smiles, that crooked lilt that always made Brad happy to see it. "I could use a nap," he says.

"You came all the way here for a nap?" Brad doesn't think he's following the conversation. Kronner took the hit, and Brad feels like _his_ brains are scrambled from a concussion.

Kronner laughs. "I didn't want to, you know, sleep alone. I mean, the doctors said it was okay, but…"

And Brad realises that his old teammate is afraid he might not wake up.

"Oh. Yeah, of course," he says. "I can take the chair. You lie down."

He wants to keep talking to him, to talk to him all night, in fact, but Kronner needs to recover. He watches a little anxiously as Kronner kicks off his shoes, then pulls his sweater over his head.

He has a t-shirt on underneath, and for a split second it clings to the pecs that Brad remembers, that he still sometimes dreams about.

Kronwall puts the sweater carefully folded down on the desk, then lines up his boots, and then pushes away the covers and gets beneath them.

"Talk to me," he says. "Until I fall asleep."

Brad figures, how much different can it be than telling his sons a bedtime story? Even if his mouth is dry and he wants to be in that bed with Kronner.

So he talks. He's not even sure what he's saying, things about his life in San Jose mostly, but as he rambles on, he realises that in all the time he's been with his new team, he hasn't once felt that urge, that prickle of desire, for any other teammate besides Kronner.

He wants to chalk it up to being back with his wife, to having a regular outlet for sexual frustration, but now that Kronner is lying in his bed again he's having a hard time of it.

Still, this is his friend, and he's suffering, so Brad forges on, until he can see Kronner's eyes are closed and his chest is rising and falling in a regular rhythm, and he allows himself to trail off, to sink into silence.

Brad had planned to sleep, too, once Kronner was out. But now he's not tired. Or maybe it's that he is, but he can't bring himself to miss anything. Who knows when he will have this opportunity again? He's happy for the Wings that they're in the East now, because of the easier schedule and everything, but it does mean he'll see Kronner a lot less.

So, he does the creeper thing and watches his old teammate sleep. He doesn't really intend to, but without being able to slow his own brain down enough to drift off, he finds himself counting each breath.

Kronner wanted assurances, didn't he? He was afraid to be on his own, so it's the right thing to do to watch him, make sure he keeps on breathing.

Brad tells himself that, and tries to pretend that he doesn't feel something warm and open in his chest as he watches Kronner sleep.

Eventually, he does get quiet and tired, and slides down a little in the chair. He's got his eyes half-open, his body begging for sleep too, when Kronner makes a little noise.

It's almost a nothing-noise, really, but the room is that pitch-black kind of quiet, and it grabs Brad's attention.

Then a louder noise, and Brad opens his eyes more fully, staring at Kronner in the bed, the moonlight coming through cracks in the curtains to give him enough light to see his friend by.

That last noise, though, the second one, that was definitely a moan.

Is Kronner in pain? Brad's about to get up, to go check on him, when he realises that a band of moonlight is falling right across Kronner's blanket-covered hips and stomach. When he realises that what he thought was a moan of pain… wasn't. That it was a moan of pleasure.

Kronner shifts in the bed, restlessly almost, his hips quirking upwards a little bit, and Brad is fascinated by the way Kronner's body reacts to whatever he's dreaming about. Kronner's cock is firming up, tenting the blanket, highlighted by moonlight in an obscene fashion.

Worse, Brad's unable to stop his own dick from becoming interested. Kronner moans again and his hips jerk, and then one of his hands travels down his chest and falls on top of his dick. Brad catches his breath, a little snag in his breathing.

Kronner is lying in his bed, having some kind of sexy dream, turned on, touching himself… and Brad is shamelessly taking advantage of the sight, his own body responding, his mind begging him to shut if off and just enjoy the view.

But he can't help it. Even as his own hand finds his cock, even as he holds it over that heaviness between his legs, he's feeling guilty. After all, he doesn't know what Kronner is dreaming about. The likelihood that Kronner is dreaming about Brad isn't great, and it's unfair to him to stare, to think of him like Brad used to, as if they are still… lovers.

Because that's what they were. Brad never wanted to admit it to himself, but in the quiet of this room and the sudden peaceful quiet of his mind, he knows it's true. They were lovers, and now they're not… they're just old friends.

But he can't stop himself from stroking his cock through his pajama pants as Kronner moans again, a thick, fraught sound of wanting.

What does he want? Brad wonders. Who? One of those long-legged, tall blondes who used to come to the games? A girlfriend?

He doesn't know why, but he doesn't want to think that maybe Kronner's dreaming about a boyfriend.

Getting off on watching your friend touch himself in his sleep is kind of low, Brad knows that. He's always tried to hold himself to high morals, but those long nights without his wife… he's not proud of the fact that he cheated, but is this worse, this here and now? Is it worse to lust after Kronner when, for all Brad knows, Kronner doesn't feel that way for him anymore?

Is it worse to lust after the man who took your wife's place in your bed… especially now that she's back in her rightful spot?

Brad groans. He doesn't mean to, he really didn't intend to make a sound, but that slight, anxious groan of guilt breaks the silence even further, and Kronner goes still in the dark, his hips ceasing their little movements, his hand paused over his dick.

And Brad's whole body jerks taut, wondering, waiting, afraid.

Kronner lets out a long breath and turns a little bit onto his side. Brad is waiting for him to say something, to catch him at getting off on what Kronner was doing in his sleep, but after a few beats of silence, Brad has to figure there's nothing.

Kronner's hand is lying across his hip now, but his cock is still pushing out the blankets, and even though he's not actively stimulating himself anymore, it doesn't help Brad's own erection go down.

He knows the right thing to do would be to go in the bathroom, take a cold shower, try to forget what he saw and of course, never mention it to Kronner.

Hell, even going in the bathroom and jerking off in a warm shower would be better than this, this awful sense of inevitability that he's just going to continue to sit here and gaze at Kronner like one of those ridiculous heroines in the romantic movies his wife likes to watch.

He swallows a noise that wants to break from his throat and resumes stroking his cock, wondering if he can get away with reaching into his pajama pants and what it might feel like to have a warm hand on his bare skin again, even if it's not Kronner's. Not that he hasn't had his wife's hand there… but somehow, even though she's close to his thoughts, she seems so far away.

So he slips his hand under the elastic of his pants and then gulps, the feeling of guilt almost worse than the feeling of pleasure that spreads through him as he touches himself.

It's almost funny, then, how shocked he is when Kronner says sleepily,

"Are you whacking off?"

Brad nearly bites through his tongue. He had been so certain Kronner was still asleep. And, in fact, his former teammate's voice is so thick with sleep he's almost not certain he's awake.

"I—"

"It's okay, you know, if you are," Kronner interrupts. "It's not like I… Well. I was dreaming. About you."

Brad's heart stops in his chest. He was?

"But wouldn't it be more fun if you were actually in your own bed?"

Brad isn't sure if that's an invitation, or what. So many things have changed.

Kronner sighs in the dark. "Stop being a melodramatic pussy," he says. "Just get in the fucking bed."

Brad pulls his hand out of his pajama pants and is embarrassed when the elastic snaps against his abs—loud enough for Kronner to hear it, definitely.

"This is a bad idea," he says, getting up from the chair. "You have that concussion, and—"

"Stuie," Kronner interjects, "I am not going to see you as often anymore. No more than two games against the Sharks, remember? And it's not like I didn't deserve it."

Brad is by the bed now, and Kronner shoves over, so Brad shoves in, under the covers and next to what is, by definition (seriously, look it up in the dictionary) the hottest body ever, and it's not just the most fucking attractive male body he's ever seen, but it's warm, heat stealing into Brad and making him realise he was cold before, but he's not now. No, not anymore.

"I don't get how you can think you deserve a concussion," Brad says, wriggling around to try and get comfortable, and not too close to Kronner—but his old friend isn't buying what he's selling. He wraps a strong, muscled arm around Brad and yanks him in tight against his chest. His t-shirt is suddenly an unbearable barrier between them, and Brad can't stop himself; he pushes one hand up beneath Kronner's shirt and just revels in the feel of that silky bare skin stretched thin and taut over hard, super-fine muscle.

"Well, maybe not the concussion. But I'm the reason I got hit."

"No," Brad says, stroking his fingertip over Kronner's nipple—rewarded with a satisfying gasp—"I don't think so. And if you don't fucking stop blaming yourself, I'm going to stop… this."

And he leans forward, his free hand finding Kronner's cheek in the dark, and tilts his head against the pillow and guides their lips together.

It's just like he remembered. Kissing Kronner was never even remotely similar to kissing anyone else. Ever. It's not like he doesn't enjoy kissing his wife; he does. It isn't that he doesn't love his wife and find kissing her thrilling, exciting; he does.

But kissing Kronner is more than just the physical experience of lips, teeth, tongue. It's got that forbidden edge, and even though Brad knows that shouldn't make a difference—that it's still essentially the same experience—but it definitely does. It makes kissing Kronner darker, more delicious, like dark chocolate instead of milk chocolate.

And the scrape of Kronner's beard against his face is different too; electrifying, and breath-taking.

His thumb and forefinger are still on Kronner's nipple, and the kiss turns deeper, more poignant. It becomes less like the frenzy of reacquaintance and more like good-bye, and that makes Brad feel little bit down himself; Kronner's mood is influencing his.

He wants to tell Kronner not to say good-bye just yet, that they have the rest of the night and there will still be texts and phone calls and messages. That this thing they have isn't as finite, as limited, as it is.

But he can't say that, because it's true… but things will be different the moment the sun comes up, the moment that Kronner leaves.

He pushes against Kronner, not really seeking anything specific, just a little bit of friction for his dick and a little bit of sensory overload for his body—his chest snugs up against Kronner's, and their kiss becomes more leisurely, still tasting of good-bye but now also of promise. Maybe even a vow, Brad's not sure.

He turns his head a little to the side, snapping the contact between them, and whispers, "I won't fuck you tonight. I won't risk your head with that much activity."

He can almost hear Kronner's smile in the dark.

"You don't have to anyway," he says. "There are—is something else we can do."

Brad remembers. He remembers the first time he, in the empty locker room, pulled down Kronner's hockey shorts and then his jockstrap, how he uncovered Kronner's dick a little bit at a time until he was surprised—though he doesn't know _why_ , really—that Kronner wasn't cut.

Maybe because it's a thing in the locker room not to look too closely at another guy's cock, so he just never realised, but in retrospect it had made some sense. Kronner's European, and he didn't know exactly how popular circumcision was over there, but apparently no one had done it to the other defenceman.

He _remembers_. How Kronner had showed him what to do. How silky it had felt; how different, how decadent.

He pulls his hand out of Kronner's t-shirt and while he wants to tug it over his head, to explore all that naked flesh, he also remembers how shy Kronwall can be. How he almost hides in the locker room when he's changing.

Or used to. Who knows about now. Brad doesn't belong there anymore. He's not sure even belongs _here_. After all, he went home. Things ought to be different, shouldn't they?

But in spite of that. In spite of everything. He throws back the covers, suppresses a shiver at the slight, sudden chill, and gets to work getting Kronner out of his pants.

His own pajama pants are more difficult. Getting Kronner out of his is helped by his old teammate lifting his hips and wiggling enough that between the two of them, the pants are soon on the floor.

But Brad is kneeling above him, so there's a certain amount of hushed laughter mixed in with the heavy breathing, the groans between them, as Brad struggles out of his pajama pants.

He isn't wearing underwear. He hadn't been expecting company, and occasionally it's one of those things—you pack, and you forget underwear. Maybe not all of them, but you don't pack enough.

The flush on Kronner's cock is evident even in the darkness due the moonlight hitting their bodies, and Brad feels a little bit self-conscious even though he knows Kronner has seen it before—has seen everything before—but somehow this feels different.

The slight chill in the air causes him to catch his breath as it brushes against the sensitive, super-charged heat of his dick. He finds himself licking his lips and then staring into Kronner's blue eyes, waiting for something—permission, maybe, even though he's never really asked for permission before.

And it's all there in Kronner's eyes, the acceptance, the desire darkening them, the faint light of the moon reflected.

Brad reaches down between them and circles Kronner's dick with two fingers. A slow, heavy drop of precome tracks down the shaft, breaking apart against Brad's thumb. It's unbelievably sexy.

He wraps the rest of his fist around Kronner and tugs back the foreskin, the silky flesh bunching up, exposing the head of Kronner's cock.

He looks into those eyes again. Still nothing there but absolute expectation. So, he takes his own dick in his other hand and then kneels up a little bit more above Kronner, positioning himself so that the crowns of their cocks are touching, and slides the flap of skin back down, covering Kronner, and covering himself.

He gasps at the feeling, and realises that Kronner gasped at the same time. The precome from his own body is slippery and mixing with the fluid from Kronner's… He thrusts against Kronner, pushing his dick towards his belly, holding them together so that the connection isn't broken.

Just this, is a gentle way of getting off, not so much of a jarring motion; he rocks forward again and allows Kronner's cock to slide away a bit, then adjusts his grasp and watches his old friend's face as the sensations become more and more acute.

The precome is dripping from both of their slits faster now, making it almost too difficult to keep the head of his cock wrapped in the foreskin of Kronner's, but he's getting close—so close, and he doesn't want to leave Kronwall out of it, so he pumps his fist over them, rubbing the tips of their cocks together, creating both friction and a slippery slide as he jacks them together.

More than once he has to adjust them again so that he can keep his cock encased by the flesh of Kronner's uncut one, and it's so hot, and they haven't done this in so long, but God, he _remembers_ —and ultimately that's all it takes to throw him over the edge, the memory of the first time he'd slipped inside Kronwall _this_ way.

His body tightens up, his cock spasms, and even as he's coming, spurting against Kronner, his former teammate is grunting and pushing his hips up, pistoning them in little circles as his jizz mixes with Brad's.

It's a mess, is what it is, but Brad slowly lets go of their softening cocks, pulling away from Kronner, and lying next to him on the bed, listening as they both pant and gasp.

He could never do this with his wife, and he feels a faint stab of guilt, but it's erased when Kronner says,

"Thank you for helping me stay positive." He sounds sleepy. "You reminded me that I could just be me sometimes."

"You don't need to stay positive," Brad murmurs back. "You just need to stay happy."

end.


End file.
